


Alone

by ssclassof56



Series: World Enough and Time [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone. -Paul Tillich





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal for the Section7MFU Quote Me Challenge  
> Thanks to Otherhawk for Shpion.

Alexander Waverly blew another smoke ring but did not watch its progress. As with his agents, having sent it on its mission, he presumed that it would carry on as directed. The circlet dutifully rose and expanded, eventually dissolving into the haze of Isle of Dogs 22 at the peak of the ceiling. Waverly's eyes remained closed, his mind otherwise occupied. He rested one hand lightly on a panel of buttons; with the other he tapped his pipe against his lips.

The unmistakable din of a flock of blackbirds disrupted his reverie. Regretfully calling his thoughts back from their rare and pleasant wanderings, he raised his eyes to the glass-paneled ceiling as a thousand dark spots streaked across the grey skies. Shpion awoke from his nap at the foot of the chaise. The office cat, an agent of the secretarial pool sent to oversee Waverly’s recovery, watched, ears alert, tale flicking rhythmically, as the flock settled across the bleak winter landscape.

Waverly chuckled. “What you wouldn’t give to be out there hunting them, eh?” The grey cat cocked an ear at the sound of Waverly’s voice but continued to swivel its head back and forth, taking in the panoramic view offered by the glass sunroom. “Or perhaps you’re content to observe from a position of warmth and comfort? I’ll wager our security detail wishes they could.” At the thought, he pushed a button to turn up the heat on his electric blanket. “Perhaps not Thompson. I do hope he isn’t too distracted looking for an elusive yellow-head in that flock.”

Waverly turned to the table at his elbow, stacked with books and other accoutrements of his convalescence. He picked up a postcard that had arrived in yesterday’s mail. The picture showed a statue of Saint George, still slightly askew from its unfortunate run-in with Mr. Kuryakin. The back bore an Ingolstein postmark and the message “Dear Uncle Alex, Having a marvelous time. Wish you were here. F.P.” He gave a snort, and Shpion turned to look at him. “Cheek,” he explained. “We can expect others. France next. Let me see...Paris, St. Cloud, La Chartre-sur-le-Loir. You wait.”

Shpion padded carefully up the chaise and sniffed at the postcard. “Now Mr. Solo and Miss Dancer are needlessly distraught. Why does this younger generation seem to have no foresight?” he asked the cat, whose only answer was to rub his face against the heavy paper. Waverly had long anticipated Miss Pemberley’s admission of a restless uncertainty about her future, as well as this apparent climacteric between herself and Mr. Kuryakin. (“Actually, it was Mrs. Waverly who first noticed that attraction,” he admitted to the cat. “Sharp as a tack, my Marjorie.”) That these crises converged with his own recent difficulties was unfortunate, but no reason to lose one’s head.

At Shpion’s insistent cries, Waverly put down the postcard to rub the cat’s chin and considered his next steps. He flattered himself that he could engineer a solution that would be to the satisfaction of his agents and to the benefit of the agency. “I could go to France and cut short Miss Pemberley’s autobiographical tour.” The cat opened one eye and skewered him with a yellow gaze. “Doctors? Bah. What do I care for their opinions? You and I have been away from headquarters a ridiculous amount of time, as it is. And it would be nice to visit Paris when it's not threatened with imminent destruction. The cafés, the bustling streets, the nightlife. Appeals to my carefree, happy-go-lucky side, you know.”

The thick covering of grey clouds which had lain across the sky all morning began to part, and shafts of pale golden sunlight slanted though. They shone down on the New England landscape, all brown and white in its winter garb. They glistened on the snow frosting the fieldstone wall, gathered and stacked by his own hands. They sparkled off the ice floes on the lake and the glassy blue waters encircling them. All around him the world was gilded and shimmering and peaceful.

With a tremendous yawn, Shpion curled up on his lap and resumed his nap. Waverly gently pulled the postcard from underneath the cat. “On second thought, I believe I’ll pass this conundrum on to Mr. Solo. He should experience the full gamut of responsibilities that face even a temporary head of Section I.”

He returned the postcard to the table. His wife would bring his tea soon. She would see that it was delivered to headquarters. He closed his eyes and drew deeply on his pipe, recalling a passage in one of the many books he had read lately: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” He sent the thought and another smoke ring soaring skyward.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon Solo stood behind the bar in his apartment, stirring a cocktail shaker a precise number of times, before straining its contents into a waiting glass. As he turned for the jar of pickled onions, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused to smooth his hair and adjust the collar of his robe. Satisfied with the results, he finished garnishing the drink and placed it on a tray next to his own, a very dry martini with a twist of lemon. He pressed a button on the intercom. “Drinks are served.”

Humming along to the Sinatra tune playing on the Nutone’s radio, he carried the tray to the coffee table and set it next to a folder emblazoned with the UNCLE logo. He drew an item from the file with a resigned sigh. Carefully arranging his robe over his bare legs, he sank into the sofa and considered the postcard thoughtfully.

Several minutes later, April Dancer crossed from the bedroom and perched next to him on the sofa. “Will you zip me, darling?” she asked, as she pulled her hair aside. He complied, kissing the nape of her neck before she let her hair fall in place. She gave a little hum, then turned and scooted next to him, her legs curled under her. She caressed the hair above his ear and let him think.

He tapped the postcard against his silk-draped knee and said eventually, “This is probably not the best use of agency assets.”

“Let me worry about my assets,” April replied, kissing the edge of his ear.

Napoleon smiled briefly, then sobered. “I keep asking myself what Mr. Waverly would do.” He tossed the postcard onto the table and picked up his martini. “Maybe I'm not the right person for this job after all. I couldn't even see how far gone my own partner was until it was too late.”

April frowned. “Now let's not start all that again. Mr. Waverly would only pass this to you if he believed you could handle it. And he’s grooming you for his replacement because he thinks you’re the right man for the job.”

“Do you think I'm the right man for the job?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

She smiled and took the drink from his hand. “All sorts of jobs.”

After a brief and satisfying interlude, Napoleon placed a final kiss on the tip of her nose. “Your hair is mussed.”

April took a comb and mirror from her handbag and smoothed her auburn waves.

“Illya is not going to like my interference,” Napoleon continued, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Undoubtedly.”

“But this is about more than his personal life. It affects the whole agency. First my best agent spends a week pickling himself in Stolichnaya. Now he’s decided that every mission can only be completed with incendiary mayhem. A year’s allotment of C4 gone in a month. He was lucky to have escaped the last blast with just a concussion.” He accepted the drink April handed him. “’Ah, love, and the danger it leads men into.’ Or words to that effect.” He raised his glass in a small toast and took a long sip of the martini. “Now Finance is getting restless, and the auditors are monitoring all my vouchers.”

April laughed into her own drink.

Napoleon passed his free hand over his face. “I sound just like the Old Man, don’t I?”

“A little.” She finished her Gibson. “So what’s the plan, Chief?”

He frowned at the file folder for a full minute before handing it to her. “You’re taking a much-needed vacation.”

She flipped through the dossier. “And when I find her?”

“I’ll let you know. I’m still mad enough to wring her neck, or at the very least reassign her to Antarctica.”

April stared at a newspaper clipping with narrowed eyes. “I may do the neck wringing myself and save you the trouble.”

Napoleon threw back the rest of his martini. “I’ll tell you what, there’s something to be said for pipe smoking. My own liver might be pickled with this job.”

“Poor darling,” she purred. “Is it lonely at the top?”

He grimaced. “Don’t you have a flight to book?”

“I do. Coach, I presume.”

He looked abashed. “Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it. Daughters of Maine require no frills.”

Napoleon took in her Carnaby Street dress and covered his chuckle with a cough.

“Shall I stay through to breakfast?” April asked, even as she stood and collected her handbag.

“Ah, no,” Napoleon responded. “As delightful as that would be, I have an early meeting. Then it’s off to Connecticut to update Mr. Waverly.”

“As I said, lonely at the top.” Napoleon smiled at the lack of disappointment in her tone. April kissed his forehead. “Ta, darling. I’ll let myself out.” In a few moments, the door had closed behind her.

Napoleon rested his head against the back of the sofa and mulled over his recent decision. Then, firm in his conviction that it was the best possible strategy, he rose and prepared for bed. There were nights, most nights, when the companionship of a beautiful woman was all that would satisfy. Then there were those rare nights, like this one, when happiness was to relax in bed with a bowl of popcorn, the Late Show and his own company. The day he could fit April, or any woman, into that scenario would become the day he was tempted to propose.


	3. Chapter 3

“You insisted that I be kept under observation for 24 hours. It has now been 23 hours and 54 minutes. In 6 minutes, I intend to be out that door. Now will you return my clothes or shall I make my exit in this rather well-ventilated gown?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” declared the harried young nurse in scandalized tones. A recent hire, she had never before faced Illya Kuryakin as a patient.

“Would and has, luv,” Mark Slate said from across the room, where he sat having stitches removed from his hand. “For my sake, please do as he requests, or we’ll all be treated to a show I’d rather not see again.”

The nurse looked from Mark to Illya, then turned on her heel and left, presumably to retrieve Illya’s suit and release authorization. Illya nodded his thanks to Mark.

“No problem, mate. Section II has to stick together. Ow,” he cried, as his nurse removed the last stitch with a less-than-gentle touch.

“So do the Medical personnel,” she said, slapping a bandage onto his hand and departing in a huff.

Six minutes later, Mark and Illya, fully dressed, stood in the corridor outside Medical. The Russian’s stomach growled. “Hungry?” Mark asked conversationally, his grin amused.

“Yes,” Illya acknowledged.

“As am I. I’m in the mood for beer and a burger. There’s a little dive with decent onion rolls near Faustina’s place. What was its name?”

“Fanelli’s,” Illya said with a calmness he did not feel.

“Yes, that's it. Come on. Lunch is on me. Just need a moment to get my coat.”

Illya followed Mark to his office and waited outside. He leaned against the gunmetal wall, brows drawn, his eyes carefully avoiding one particular door.

“Right, all set,” Mark said, wearing his well-worn leather jacket and corduroy hat. Though still winter, the weather had been unseasonably warm that week “Need anything?”

Illya shook his head. “Everything I want, I have.”

Something in his tone caused Mark to search his face closely. Then he shrugged and led them out.

A taxi ride downtown brought them to the Fanelli Café. They took seats at the counter and placed their order. Mark spun around on his stool and leaned back with his elbows on the bar. He scanned the other patrons, an eclectic mix of blue-collar workers and artistic types who inhabited nearby lofts. “Now there's a pretty armful,” Mark said, nodding toward a table with a brunette and a redhead.

Illya looked over his shoulder briefly and harrumphed, then returned to his beer, drinking deeply. He was weary of beating back the memories that arose at the most inopportune times. Once again he fought the recollection of those minutes he had held Faustina in his arms, the softness of her curves, the play of the muscles underneath, the heady moment when she abandoned the last of her reserve and all that it seemed to promise. “Don't think about what might have been,” he muttered to himself as if reciting a mantra. “Things are what they are.”

Mark elbowed him. “They’re waving us over. Come on.”

“You go. I’m just here for the food.”

“So it’s to be two against one, eh. I like those odds.” Mark grabbed his beer and crossed the café.

The proprietor slid Illya’s burger to him unceremoniously. “Hey, you’re the guy that comes in with Faustina. I haven’t seen you since that night when those goons tried to tear my place apart.”

“Yes, that was quite something, wasn’t it?” Illya said without enthusiasm.

The diminutive ex-boxer rubbed his knuckles. “We showed them their mistake. It was good to see Faustina could handle herself in a fight. Kinda important when you risk living in this neighborhood.”

Illya had no desire to talk about Faustina. “I'm glad to see the damage has been repaired.”

“Yeah, good as new,” he said proudly, then scratched his head. “Never known an insurance company to be that quick or generous.”

“Lucky break.”

“You said it, pal.” Other patrons beckoned, and he stepped away. “Hey, you tell Faustina not to be a stranger,” he said in parting.

“Too late, pal,” Illya murmured and tore into his burger.

He had just finished wolfing down his fries when Mark appeared at his side. “The girls want to show me this little gallery down the street. Are you sure you’re not interested?”

“Quite sure.”

Mark tossed some bills on the counter and slapped him on the back. “All right then, mate. See you later.” Mark returned to the girls and extended both elbows. “Shall we, ladies?” The girls giggled at his gallantry and linked their arms with his. The trio disappeared onto Prince Street.

After draining his second beer, Illya left as well. He decided against a taxi and headed down the sidewalk for the subway station. As he had everyday for weeks, he reminded himself of the logical facts. Things were better this way. He had always cherished his solitude, and soon he would be able to glory in it again. Like tackling any addiction, it was best to quit cold-turkey. The pains of withdrawal would ease in time. The memories would fade. When she returned to New York, assuming she did, he would face her with equanimity. She would mean no more to him than most any other agent. He looked forward to recapturing the peace of mind he had enjoyed before she entered his life.

Illya skirted yet another truck backed onto the sidewalk and realized he had been walking for longer than necessary to reach the Prince Street station. He stopped short and looked around. “Chyort, chyort, chyort,” he exclaimed loudly, startling those walking nearby. A multi-storied building with a familiar stone and cast iron façade stood across the street. Like a compass seeking magnetic north, his feet had taken him along Mercer right to her loft.

He knew an overwhelming desire to plunge inside to the cargo elevator and ride it to the top floor. There were so few places where he wasn’t obligated to explain his injuries or apologize for his moods or account for his absences. But the curtains were drawn. She had fled to God-knows-where, turned to God-knows-whom. In a spurt of anger, he calculated how much C4 it would take to raze the building to the ground. “I’m losing my mind,” he muttered and sank onto the steps behind him.

Try as he might, he couldn’t fool himself anymore. He did not have everything he wanted. He couldn’t stop thinking about what might have been. In an agonized whisper, he admitted the truth. “I’m lonely.”

He balanced his crossed arms on his knees and rested his forehead against them, remaining that way for some time. Then, abruptly, he straightened and fished his communicator out from inside his jacket, unconcerned about who might be watching. He opened the channel and requested an agent, steeling himself against the possibility that she was unavailable.

“Dancer, here.” At her voice, Illya’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“April, it’s Illya. I’m sorry I was impolite when we spoke last.”

“You weren’t impolite, darling. You were an ass.”

Illya smiled ruefully. “All right, I was an ass. You were trying to tell me something about Faustina then. Well, I think I’m finally ready to hear it.”


End file.
